“It seemed like you sort of found your identity in him.”

My friend’s words nearly knocked the wind out of me. I had worked hard, for two and a half years, to keep my identity separate from his, to do what I wanted and not to get subsumed into the relationship bubble that has sucked friend after friend out of my life. I have always had my own identity, thank you.
And yet, now that I’ve left, where have I gone?
There’s something about knowing someone else finds you beautiful to the core, something that makes it easy to believe. But then it’s not your own faith.
It turns out there is surprisingly little I know about myself. I’m an idealist and a cynic; I have no patience for small talk; I take charge of things because I can’t stand to see them done “wrong”. I like gummy bears and chicken fingers of all kinds, but only the best chocolate and coffee will do. I want the best from myself, every day and at all times; I’m awfully self-conscious and I think that’s silly. I depend on my friends more than most people do and I am terrified, absolutely terrified, to leave them and make new ones, then leave them and make new ones.
I want to take big risks and I’m passionate about too many things to “just do it”. Just do what? Travel the whole entire world or stay in Cleveland, at Havenplace? Start teaching improv to inner city teenagers or open a vintage clothing store? Peace Corps? Or one of a thousand really neat nonprofits that will let me work for them if I’ll just do them the favor of begging my own airfare and living costs off of my friends and family?
For right now, exams and papers and responsibilities galore, plenty to do while the back half of my brain fills itself with a million little fears and doubts, possibilities and impossible desires, always whispering six months to May
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